


Mutterseelenallein

by AphoticW



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Katsuki Yuuri, Aged-Up Victor Nikiforov, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different jobs, Angst, Black Comedy, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Confrontations, Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Dark Comedy, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Happy Ending, Homelessness, Homophobia, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Neighbors, POV Victor Nikiforov, Parental Issues, Past Suicide Attempt, Pining, Recovery, Self-Destruction, Sexual Situations, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Traveling, Triggers, Unreliable Narrator, Writer Victor Nikiforov, making amends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 20:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19837867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphoticW/pseuds/AphoticW
Summary: "Viktor, are you all right?" Yuuri questions as he goes to reach for him. Viktor glances at both his hands and nods at Yuuri. The weight of his hands is nice against his shoulders, and he doesn’t flinch at the contact. He keeps focusing on Yuuri's hands to ground him back into reality. The voice in his head grows quieter even.He can't find the words to respond to the man in front of him. He's afraid the voice in his head will take over his vocal cords once more and scream out at the poor man. The words are scorching his throat when Yuuri removes his hands and he fights them down.Help me.





	Mutterseelenallein

**Author's Note:**

> Long-time no post! And that's ultimately my bad. I've been going through a huge life transition with a move, and to be quite honest I have been in quite a low place in my life since being here. It's been harder to get into the headspace of my WIP and I have had this sitting around for about three years. It was originally a story I had penned with OCs, but I felt like I needed to get it out for some reason. 
> 
> I am doing better with my own mental health, and this helped me in my own struggle. This is very loosely based on a situation in my early twenties mostly the neighbors part. So this fic is very self-indulgent. 
> 
> Please, please--read the tags before continuing. This story is a bit heavy at parts with suicidal thoughts mentioned throughout and heavy substance abuse. There is also an explanation of two suicide attempts. This is more so a study on characters with depression and thoughts sort of like how my brain works at times during mental struggle and the recovery. 
> 
> I hope all who do give this a chance to see in-depth to different types of mental illness and use this to reach out to those who need help. I also reach out to anyone in this community who may need anybody my door is always open. 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading. 
> 
> Mutterseelenallein - it translates to the greatest possible loneliness. 
> 
> Basically, the word breaks down to Mutter (Mother) / Seelen (souls) / allein (alone). Mother souls alone is direct translation. The best way I can explain the use of the word is that--your loneliness feels as deep as your own mother abandoning you. So isolated that there is nobody to lean on in the world for you.
> 
> German is one of the languages I speak, so I like to incorporate some of my favorite words sometimes. 
> 
> *Sentences that are italicized are thoughts going through Viktor's head or more so his "mental illness" speaking to him. Except on phone conversations with Yuuri. 
> 
> Also, I'm old and don't understand HTML for line breaks so just rock with those little dividers I did.

Viktor never thought of himself as a devout person.

He never even questioned the probability of a God up in heaven.

He was raised in a house of God, but they only saw the world in black and white. Right or wrong.

And to them, he was everything they deemed wrong. So wrong in fact, that he was homeless at the age of sixteen.

He had to hand it to himself being without a home in a country he had lived in for five years. He had made a living for himself. America was vast and ever-changing, but New York City was a beast within itself.

Cars never seemed to stop their incessant beeping and lights always shone no matter the time of day. Night owls thrived after hours and feasted upon Chinese take-out like famished dogs. The people in the city fascinated him like mice stuck in a maze. Beasts of habit. The mailman showed up on his doorstep at the crack of dawn piling bills into his mailbox. The raucous actress down the hall blasted Judy Garland movies. She mumbled the words to the film like it was her bible. And the lively Swiss above him who fucked like it was his last day on Earth day in and day out. He cursed himself for knowing the exact moment the man above him would crescendo into pleasure.

New York City was like clockwork without an understanding of time. That's what kept him chained to his studio apartment. If he thought about the concept of time, memories would rear their ugly head. They would push him further into a place he struggles every day to climb out of.

Fourteen years had gone by since that frigid night in December. Nothing but the clothes on his back and a notebook clutched between stiff fingers. Nowadays that's the only thing he keeps track of since it falls on Christmas. He can hear the carolers croon their songs about their Lord and Savior blocks away. He hopes that they stray very far away from his abode.

The last thing he needs to be reminded of is the only connection he has with religion.

He happens to share a birthday with one Jesus Christ.

Yeah, the one who was nailed to the cross and all that jazz. He used to joke with colleagues that he was a descendant of JC himself. Coming from a long line of prostitutes like Mary Magdalene herself. It was easier when he had long hair to make the connection, but few found his jests entertaining. He didn't know if it was the jab at the magical man himself or that he linked their profession to prostitutes for the masses.

Not that being a ghostwriter was a bad thing. At least his words were getting put out somewhere. Not running across his insomniac ridden thoughts.

Speaking of insomnia, he had a rather bad case of it. Keeping him up at all hours of the night and forcing him to stare at his haggard mug longer than he wanted to. Depression was a hell of a bitch when it revs up at three in the morning. But a bottle of Jack helps quell the rampant whispers in his head.

Well, alcohol usually does.

_No one even gives a flying fuck about you, why are you even still here?_

_The Swiss will give you a pity fuck before you down all your Ambien with a fifth of Jack. Wouldn't that be a way to go?_

"Fuck off," He mutters to his thoughts as he pulls himself from his bathtub. When the fuck did he even get into the bathtub? Last night? This morning? What time is it even? All he knew was that it was Christmas because his office decided to gift him an expensive bottle of whiskey. It was like they knew he was eighty percent alcohol on most days. He catches his reflection in the mirror and has the urge to punch his fucking stupid face through the glass.

Jesus, when was the last time he shaved?

_Wait, don't take the Lord's name in vain. At least he shouldn't on Christmas of all days. Got to be somewhat respectful and shit._

He narrowly avoids smashing his hip into the counter as he struts over into his kitchen. Plates litter the counter-top and greasy boxes of pizza leaks all over his cracked granite. He should clean that up. Or, or-maybe he'll slip on the oil and crack his head off the counter.

_Then it would look like an accident. Nobody would know what a goddamn pussy you are._

He laughs at his jab and follows the ghastly rumble with a pull from his whiskey. God, what does it take these days? Two bottles of top shelf? He can't even tell anymore as he tosses the empty bottle into his trash. Too bad the trash is overflowing, and the bottle tips and crashes to the floor. He doesn't even flinch at the sound of the shattering glass. He steps over it and makes a mental note to fall straight into the glass when he slips on the pizza grease. It might finish the job then.

He fishes a cigarette from his shirt pocket and easily shoves it between his teeth. He makes his way out to the outdoor balcony because he isn't a fucking savage. He doesn't need his apartment reeking of smoke. He finds his matches in the same pocket and strikes a match on the second try. The flash of fire appears before him and the stench of sulfur invades his senses. He flicks the match eight floors down and watches the little flame tumble down.

__That could be you if you finally grow the balls to fucking do it._ _

"Fuck off," He says again around the butt of a cigarette.

"I mean, I'd rather not."

The voice startles Viktor out of his stupor and he stumbles back at the noise. His eyes narrow as he searches for the sound. Damn, his thoughts are so fucking loud. It sounds like they are right in front of him. He lifts his head North and finds out he isn't insane.

Well, he still isn't clear on that.

There's a man also smoking on his balcony. He's difficult to make out, but he's only twenty feet from Viktor. The damn apartment buildings are so close together he could jump-

"Bad joke. I know you weren't talking to me." The man speaks once more. He flicks his ebony hair out of his eyes and leans against the glass of his sliding doors. The smoke cascades from his nostrils and wraps around him. It gives him an ominous glow, or maybe that's the whiskey.

Viktor continues to stare at the man across from him.

_He's quite handsome-maybe he'll give you the pity fuck instead of the Swiss._

Viktor shakes his head to push the voice inside his head deeper away. The whiskey was supposed to do that, but it isn't working tonight. Viktor rests his forearms on the railing of the balcony and grins. The smoke slips through his teeth as he finds the words on the tip of his tongue.

"Why is a handsome man like you out this late at night?" Viktor says. He isn't sure if he is slurring but hopes his usual charm flows within his words. He can't tell at this point since the voice is trying to yell over his words.

He can see the man blush from this distance, and it almost brings a laugh out of him. The man steps forward, and Viktor can finally see his features. He is of Asian descent; he's not going to even humor himself by trying to find out which country. His hair is swept back from his face and his partially rimmed glasses rest on his nose. His face set in a stern expression, and he can see the exact moment the man's eyes roll at his words. He's stunning for a lack of a better term.

"Probably the same reason an equally handsome man is out here at this hour." The man retorts.

"I don't take compliments easily."

"Can dish them, but can't take them?" The man jests with a rattling chuckle. He snubs out his cigarette and is about to turn to go back into his apartment. Viktor watches as his hand hovers over the handle. He seems to be in thought, but not for long before he turns around.

"Hey," The man calls out.

"Hmm?"

He shuffles in his spot on the balcony and shakes his head a few times before sighing.

"Nothing. Goodnight." The man states.

_Pity fuck. Pity fuck. Get him into your apartment. When was the last time you got laid? Come on, I bet he would look amazing on his kne-_

"Wait!" Viktor shouts right as the man is halfway into his apartment. Viktor flicks his cigarette to the floor of the balcony. He feels it hit the side of his foot and registers the pain as he leans even further across the railing.

"Yes?"

"My name is Viktor by the way. Just so you know who to think of later."

_God, you're so fucking pathetic._

"Viktor." He tests the name once with a light laugh. "My name is Yuuri. I'll be seeing you."

"Hopefully. Goodnight."

_Yup. King of the Losers, I hope that's what they put in your obituary._

Viktor scoffs as he makes his way back into his apartment. He smoked his last cigarette out on the balcony so he would have to venture for more. Luckily, he still had his pants on, but he needed to find a shirt. After smelling through at least a dozen shirts he deemed one worthy and set out on his task. The walk wasn't that far, but when two bottles deep the stairs did that wibble wobble thing. Viktor could usually handle the spins. The greyish color of his stairwell clouds his vision. He steadies himself with his palm against the cooling concrete. After he collects himself, he ungracefully clambers down the flight of stairs.

The harsh wind blew against his rosy cheeks and he damned himself for forgetting to bring a scarf. The convenience store was a block away, and his ankle boots slipped against the ice as he stomped there.

The icy sidewalks reminded him of winters spent skating across Lake Lagoda. A giddy laugh almost broke the abnormal silence of the night as he thought back on those days. He would race past his peers and wind his way to the goal whenever they played ice hockey. He was more of a fan of spins and jumps. He even mastered a double jump by himself. His mother screeched at his carelessness and stuffed his skates away never to be found again. He had sprained an ankle trying to perfect one of his jumps, and that took him out of commission to work with Father.

Father Nikiforov.

The most pious man in the metropolis, but in Viktor's eyes he was the most sinister of all. Lies riddled in every word he spoke, and venom spewed with each sermon he gave out.

Father Nikiforov was a fucking sham, and his son was homosexual. His mother would cry herself to sleep and his father wouldn't even look him in the eye. They heard of a rendezvous that Viktor took part in when he was out in the city through the grapevine. He didn't have time to explain himself before his father grabbed him up by the scruff of his neck. He had cast him to the streets within moments.  
Father Nikiforov mourned the loss of his only son. But only for a second before going back to spin his tales of holy men and drab robes.

The son that was supposed to take the cloth and continue their newly built church in America.

Being gay probably saved him a lifetime of grief.

_Nice lie you're spinning yourself, kid. You still have all the grief. That's why you have me._

Ding! Ding! He scrunches his nose at the offending noise as he enters the mini-market. He always comes to this market because the wonderful man behind the counter sells his alcohol past the legal times. Even if the man didn't, Viktor was sure a crisp hundred-dollar bill would change his mind. He better stock up now while he's here. He grabs as much as his shaky arms can hold as he reaches the counter. He dumps the contents onto the counter and the Thai man raises an eyebrow at all the items.

 _"_ Wild night, eh?" He chimes with an all too chipper tone.

Viktor sighs. He starts to point at his preferred pack of cigarettes, but the man already has them placed on the counter. His total makes his eyebrows raise, but he reminds himself that he needs this. His liver pangs during the swipe of his card, and he digs his fingertips into his right side. A hiss escapes his lips as the Thai man bags his bottles, and hands over his items. Viktor doesn't even waste time as he plucks out a cigarette and begins his walk back.

The wind knocks the stick from his lips, and he curses. He stops dead in his tracks to try and find the cigarette, but his feet slip out from under him as he crouches down.

_Shit, wouldn't it be hilarious if Viktor Nikiforov, son of Father Nikiforov--ghostwriter for all the New York Bestseller horror novels breaks his neck on a curbside?_

_No! No! Wait, this is a better headline. "Local alcoholic and suicidal mess mourns the loss of both his bottles of whiskey in a freak accident"._

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, do you ever shut up?" Viktor growls to himself as the snow seeps into his jacket. He can feel the ice seeping into his skin and set in his bones. He lies there for a few more minutes before lifting his head off the ground.

If he were a religious man, he would say this man was some sort of Christmas spirit.

However, it's just Yuuri.

He's standing above him--cigarette dangling from his curious grin and a hint of playfulness hinting at the corner of his eyes. He's wearing a worn-out overcoat and Viktor can make out the scuffs on his oxfords. Viktor's vision crosses for a second, but he shakes his head viciously to stop the swirls. He sits up and doesn't even bother to brush off his coat as he tries to get up. Yuuri reaches to help him by the elbow, but Viktor barks at him in Russian. He didn't mean to, but the sudden human contact makes his mind go rampant.

Yuuri backs away and raises his hands defensively. "Sorry, I should've asked first."

Viktor sighs once he's at his feet and catches the amber gaze of the man before him. Viktor waves a hand at him and clutches his precious liquor closer to his chest. He takes a few steps forward but almost tumbles to the ground again. He leans against the subway station railway and the metal digs into his back as he settles against it.

_Hey, if you do a backflip over this railing, I can almost promise you that it will kill you._

"Viktor, are you all right?" Yuuri questions as he goes to reach for him. Viktor glances at both his hands and nods at Yuuri. The weight of his hands is nice against his shoulders, and he doesn’t flinch at the contact. He keeps focusing on Yuuri's hands to ground him back into reality. The voice in his head grows quieter even.

He can't find the words to respond to the man in front of him. He's afraid the voice in his head will take over his vocal cords once more and scream out at the poor man. The words are scorching his throat when Yuuri removes his hands and he fights them down.

_Help me._

"Everything is fine. Just not feeling well." He almost gasps. He didn't even realize he wasn't breathing.

"And two bottles of whiskey on top of the, what? Two you've already had, are going to help?" Yuuri states.

Viktor's eyes must be as wide as saucers because Yuuri is sternly staring at him. He crosses his arms, and his cigarette burns into the pavement below. Viktor focuses on the ember near his feet, and he has the urge to snuff it out. He can smell the filter burning up below him. It reeks and he shrivels is nose at the offending stench.

"What are you? A perv? Watching me through the blinds? You can walk over and ask for a romp if that's what you wanted." Viktor spits back as he tries to push away from the railing. His body doesn't move yet, he can't seem to find his footing. It's like he's rooted or under some spell created by Yuuri's gaze. His eyes are . . . hurt and shifting nervously.

Viktor can see his reflection in his glasses and what stares back is appalling. He looks like one of those rabid dogs baring his teeth at the last scrap of meat. His hair is all in disarray and he can't believe he let his facial hair get this out of control. A reflexive hand shoots up to smooth down the gristle, and it crackles as he brushes against the rough hairs.

"Do you want me to help you carry that to your apartment?"

His apartment. His fucking hell that he created within his own home. He doesn't want to go back there, but it's freezing. He feels like he's transported back to that night when he had to take shelter under a bridge. At least the bridge kept the winds from freezing the tips of his fingers off. He looks back up to Yuuri and shakes his head with denial. He can hear Yuuri audibly sigh and shift his feet. The man is looking around the street, but there is nothing to look at. Everyone is off with their families enjoying the wretched holiday. Why the fuck is Yuuri even out here alone?

"Don't you have a jolly Santa to wait for?" Viktor says.

Yuuri chuckles. "No, in Japan we don't celebrate Christmas quite like the Americans. Plus, my family is back in Japan."

Viktor doesn't bother coming up with a witty comment. The pain in his side is searing and he can't help but dig his fingers back into his side. it helps the pain-he thinks about what's in his medicine cabinet at home. There are some painkillers, if he takes enough he could stop the pain forever.

_Now you're thinking like a man with a purpose!_

"You got enough for both of us in there?" Yuuri asks with laughter littered in his tone. He took a few steps closer to Viktor. He reaches out to let his fingertips graze the paper bag still clutched in Viktor's grasp. Viktor had a mind to snatch it away from Yuuri, but instead let him carefully pluck it from his arms. Yuuri gave a half-smile as he heaved the bags into his arms and held out an elbow for Viktor.

"Come on. Your place isn't too far away."

Viktor stops before he can take up Yuuri's offer. "No,"

"What's wrong?"

"I can't--I don't want to-" Viktor slurs.

"You don't want to go back to your apartment?"

Viktor tries once again to get his voice to leave, but it's stuck in a tar trap. He tries to form the words, but nothing comes out. Yuuri cocks an eyebrow at him and simply takes his arm. He doesn't turn back to their apartment. Instead clambers down the subway stairs with Viktor in tow. The skin of Yuuri's palm that came in contact with his wrist feels searing against his skin. He's almost tripping on his own feet as Yuuri yanks him through the subway toll with a swipe of his pass. They barely catch a cabin as he is hustled onto a bench.

The subway reeks of piss and sweat. Or is that him? He can't tell anymore as Yuuri sets his bag on the floor and Viktor cages it between his ankles. The bottles rattle as the subway lurches forward and takes off in some unknown direction. He chances a glance at the Japanese man next to him who is huffing. He wheezes and stifles a cough behind his fist. He fumbles with the inside pocket of his coat for a second and retrieves a pack of cigarettes. Yuuri vigorously taps the pack against his upper arm harshly. He rips the cellophane off the pack and shakes two out. He stuffs one between his lips and holds one out for Viktor.

"You can't smoke in the subway," Viktor mumbles while eyeing the cigarette. Yuuri looks around the subway car and raises his hands to note the absence of others. Viktor lets out a puff of air before taking the cigarette between his fingers. He shifts so that Yuuri can light the tobacco. Viktor puffs on it a few times before his space is invaded by Yuuri who is leaning forward. One of his hands comes out to rest on Viktor's bony knee, and he's holding the cigarette between his lips. They catch each other's gaze for a second, and Viktor is instantly hypnotized by the way Yuuri looks at him.

Yuuri shifts forward and lights his cigarette with the end of Viktor's. But all Viktor can focus on is the gentle squeeze of Yuuri's hand on his knee. His eyes shift down to observe his hands. They're quite dainty compared to his bear claws. He notes a few scrapes, and some leftover scars from God knows what. Yuuri removes his hand from Viktor's knee and takes a harsh drag of his cigarette.

Menthol is filling Viktor's lungs at an alarming rate, and the burn excites him. He thought he was devoid of all feelings these days. The weight of Yuuri's hand a few seconds ago seemed to break something within him. He couldn't even remember the last time he let another human being touch him.

_Didn't need a rocket scientist to figure that one out. It's been ages since you've gotten some tail._

He almost speaks out against his thoughts, but he holds his tongue. He rather not freak Yuuri out any more than he probably has. His buzz is wearing off, and the chill of the metal tin can he's in is starting to settle on his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up, and he takes that moment to reach up and wipe at the back of his neck. Sweat slicks his hand, and it baffles him.

"I didn't mean to drag you onto the subway," Yuuri says with a nervous laugh. He leans back against his seat and blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Everything the man next to him does is mesmerizing. Viktor is becoming an addict on sight with every slight movement Yuuri makes. It is like he is making music with his body and that's all Viktor can focus on. He's starting to notice the almost non-existent dimples in his cheeks. The way he scrunches his nose up in thought or the tremble in his voice whenever he speaks.

"It's all right." Viktor rasps. He can feel the burn of the cigarette reaching its tail end as it dangles from his chapped lips. Viktor takes one more puff, and then ungracefully tosses it across the cabin. Yuuri's eyes follow the ember, and it explodes on impact against one of the windows. Yuuri makes a very quiet explosion noise after the impact, and Viktor cracks a smile. Yuuri looks over to gauge a reaction from Viktor.

"Quite the throw."

"Many are impressed with my finger strength." Viktor chirps back.

Yuuri rolls his eyes. "That's a nice display, but I'd have to experience it firsthand."

"Oh, I've got references." Viktor retorts with a wiggle of his fingers. Yuuri lets out a belly laugh and throws his right arm across the back of the seats. His legs widen as he gets more comfortable in his place.

Viktor is a bit baffled why this man is taking the time to sit with his pathetic self. Who the fuck would want to sit with some drunk loser on Christmas morning? He doesn't even want to be with himself eighty percent of the time. Some days he quite likes himself because he's got of a hell of a humor and writing skills to put others to shame. Writing wasn't even the same to him anymore because nobody even knew it was fucking words on the paper. It was easier being a ghostwriter for the made-up names from the publishing companies. So, what did he have to show? A stack of books on his coffee table that didn't mean shit to him. God, he had to hold himself back every night from tossing them into his overflowing trash bin.

Most of the time he stares at his reflection and can't even make eye contact with himself. Mirrors had become his number one avoidance. If he can't see himself, he doesn't have to think about what a piece of shit he is.

"Why did you drag me onto the subway?"

Yuuri's posture straightens at the question. Viktor can catch the glint of the lights passing them by in his glasses. Yuuri's eyes keep forward as he crosses his legs and bounces his free leg.

"I have lived in that apartment for a year now. And I was incredibly curious about the man who lives across from me."

"So, you were watching me?"

"I'm not finished." Yuuri states. He has another cigarette and is taking a small drag from it. He motions to the bag at Viktor's feet with his free hand. Viktor pushes the bag with his foot, and Yuuri leans down to rummage through its contents. He pulls a bottle of whiskey from it and turns it over in his hands.

"Nine."

Viktor fumbles at his statement and is about to question it but Yuuri turns in his seat to face him. Yuuri seems to be observing his reaction for a second but squeezes his eyes shut once. Twice, and then open his mouth to speak.

"Nine bottles you put in the recycling every other week. Sometimes you forget to bring your trash out, and you haul a bunch out. At first, I thought you were a huge party animal since I saw lots of people going in and out of your place. But it has been eight months since you've had a visitor." Yuuri explains with that distant shake in his voice. He moves forward and places the bottle back into the bag with a soft clink.

Viktor doesn't know how to react. He actually loathes himself a bit for not even caring for a second what Yuuri said. He clasps his hands together and shifts so that he doesn't have to look the other man in the face.

"I know there is nothing I can say that doesn't seem like I've been watching you from my apartment. I tend to sit on my balcony sometimes. Tonight, was the first night you noticed me-not that I wanted to be noticed by you. I felt like I needed to tell you."

Viktor nods once Yuuri finishes. Viktor glances up and notices that they are already creeping back up to their stop. Jesus, how long had they sat in complete silence? Viktor couldn't even recall seeing the stops during his ride. Yuuri stands up and makes his way to the sliding doors. He turns around to look at Viktor who is still rooted in his spot.

He couldn't even think of an excuse to tell Yuuri. He had nada, zip. So, he simply stands up with the bag forgotten on the floor behind him. He steps up to stand next to Yuuri, and their shoulders barely brush. He's much taller than the Japanese man so Yuuri has to crane his neck up to look at Viktor. Yuuri gives him a weak smile as the subway doors open for their stop, and they step in sync out of the car.

The metal beast rushes away behind them, and Viktor's hair whirls with the wind. He smooths it down with his palm, and Yuuri reaches out to fix the collar of Viktor's shirt. His fingers linger for a second over the fabric, and when Viktor's eyes meet with his he rips his fingers away.

"You forgot your whiskey," Yuuri whispers.

"I can always buy more," Viktor replies softly.

"Maybe just one bottle a week."

"Hell, think of all the money I would save." Viktor jokes.

They are still rooted in the damp subway tunnel. The only noises a mix of their breathing and the roaring of an oncoming subway car. He can hear the faint sounds of footsteps starting to barrel into the waiting lobby. He can't seem to care as he keeps his eyes fixed on Yuuri.

What is it about this man? It's like a moth to a fucking inferno. Viktor can't stop looking, thinking, and wanting to touch him. Yuuri reached out consistently to make contact with him through the night. Viktor's arms are like concrete against his sides. He can't seem to make his brain move them.

"I should probably be going. Um, I'm sorry again for disrupting your night."

Viktor shakes his head. "You didn't disrupt anything. It's not like I do much anyhow."

Yuuri shifts on the edges of his feet for a few seconds and crosses his arms. The man is shaking a bit, and Viktor can see his breath on each exhale.

"Would you like to-I don't know, have more to do? Shit, that sounds weird. I mean, would you like to hang out sometime? Preferably not at four in the morning, but only if you-"

"We can arrange something." Viktor interrupts.

Yuuri smiles widely and ducks his head down to his chest. Viktor feels a weight lift from his muscles, and they can finally move under his command. He lays an arm over the smaller man's shoulders and yanks him close to his side.

They walk side by side, a bit awkwardly since the alcohol still is running through his veins. But his grin stretches across his face and the muscles ache in his face.

* * *

One week. He didn't try to contact Yuuri for one week, but sometimes he would catch sight of the Japanese man across the way. Another holiday sprouts with the morning sun. But that's long gone since it's about six o'clock in the afternoon. Viktor awoke in his apartment on the damp carpet. His sweat must have poured out into the fabric overnight. He was reading one of his books last night and crooning to his records with a bottle of vodka.

_I thought you promised that young man you weren't going to drink more than one a week. Pathetic._

Viktor can feel the glass bottle nudge against his exposed side. He must have not put clothes on before bed last night since he was just sporting his boxers. He can see his phone not too far away, and he rolls over to snatch it up. His stomach lurches at the feeling and he fights back the feeling of vile creeping up. He flicks open his lock screen and ignores the boring-ass background. He never had the mind to change it when he bought the phone.

He sees that he has a few unread texts. More like 95 unread texts.

**Where r u? U haven't come into the office all week.**

**Viktor, where are your pages? You were supposed to submit them on the portal or by hand last week.**

**Hey fuck face, I called you three times. You missed dinner two days ago with Otabek and I. Are you okay, fucker?**

He chuckles at a few of the texts dryly and then scrolls back up to the top of his list. The top number isn't saved, but the message sparks his interest.

**Hey, I don't know if you remember slipping me your card last week. I thought if you have nothing to do tonight for New Year’s Eve we could hang out at my place. Pizza on me.**

His brain doesn't even stall at who the owner of that number is as he sits up. His head throbs, and he immediately raises a hand to clutch at his brow. He squeezes his eyes shut to shun away from his oncoming headache. Once he opens them, he glances around to see if maybe he left a bit of vodka for his future self.

Luck would have it; he has a full bottle lying next to his right side. He grabs the bottle and deftly undoes the cap. Some would think he was a mad man, but he can barely feel the burn as he takes three huge gulps from the bottle. He hisses as he secures the cap back onto the bottle and tosses it towards his feet.

Fuck it, he's going to call Yuuri.

The line rings a few times, and then a pleasant voice answers.

_"Hello?"_

Viktor coughs. Of course, he fucking coughs straight into the receiver first thing. "Hey, uh, Yuuri, right? It's Viktor. You know, the drunken mess from a week ago? I don't remember giving you my number. I'm just uh . . . returning your call."

Yuuri laughs on the other end of the phone.

_"You mean my text?"_

God, can't he just be fucking cool for once in his life. He always has to be so damn awkward.

"Yeah, your text. If you aren't doing anything-I have no plans tonight as well."

_"Perfect. I'm leaving work now. Say meet at the bottom of my complex in thirty minutes?"_

"You got it."

Yuuri hangs up with a rushed goodbye, and Viktor is left with the dial tone.

Shit, he had to be presentable tonight. Given their meeting was wrong in all kinds of ways. He still couldn't shake the feeling of some gravitational pull towards the other man. His dreams were littered with Yuuri and his alcoholic haze during the day. He even started churning out some words a few nights ago, but he doesn't even remember where he was going with the plot.

He hasn't written anything noteworthy in a year. A fucking year.

_Pathetic._

Viktor stands and the bottle near his feet almost sends him tumbling when it rolls under his sole. He curses and kicks it out of the way. He makes his way over to his closet of a bathroom, and figures he's going to try and salvage his image. At least he showered last night . . . or was it this morning? His hair sweeps over once of his ocean eyes, and he still feels the gristle lining his cheeks from not shaving in a week. It stings as he runs his fingers across the hairs, but he sort of likes the beard. It takes ages to grow, but he was told once it makes him look more refined.

_Did they really mean refined? I mean he was just looking to make you another notch on his bedpost._

Viktor rolls his eyes at the racing thought and decides to keep it anyhow. He slaps some aftershave on his neck, so he doesn't smell like the bottom of a whiskey barrel. He figures a plain black t-shirt was easy enough and a pair of grey Levis. He panics for a minute because he can't find his belt. He frantically searches all corners of his bedroom, but alas it's not there.

Finally, he chances his living room. Sitting on his couch is the belt. But it's notched together to make a lasso. Viktor lifts it and turns it over in his hand a few times. Why the hell did he do this? The leather was cracking. He had bought the belt probably only a month ago.

_You don't remember? Jesus, maybe you do need to lay off the drinks. Maybe you should check the bathroom again._

This is an easy thought. It doesn't seem to weird. He undoes the belt from its notch and starts threading it through the belt loops on his jeans. He enters his rather messy bathroom and glances in the mirror after finding nothing on the counter. He had failed to catch the thick ring of red around his throat earlier. He reaches up to run his fingers across the irritated skin and he grits his teeth at the dull pain.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He removes his hands from his neck, and he looks down at them. They are shaking violently as he tries to recall even doing that to himself last night. Was he just jerking it and decided to spice it up? Or, did he get convinced deeper by his thoughts to do . . . other things?

He disregards everything and moves forward trying not to think about what he got into last night. He checks the clock on his stove and it's about time for him to head across the street to Yuuri's. He slips his essentials into his pockets, and as he's leaving his foot knocks into the bottle of vodka again.

He stares at the offending item on the floor and holds back a growl. Why the fuck is he like this? Why can't he just say no? He can't even trust himself to stay away from it. His fingers itch to snatch the bottle up and just go to town. He can't be fucked up in front of Yuuri. Again.

He actually likes Yuuri. He's not sure if Yuuri is interested in him like that. He doesn't even care though. He would take a friend any day since all his have seemed to fade away in the past few years. Not like he was good at making friends. His thoughts and what he puts on paper usually frightened them away. His last boyfriend found his books grotesque and couldn't live with someone who had a fucked-up mind like that.

Viktor thinks the stories he spins are telling and show the true nature of the world. He made money off people's fear and enjoyed seeing their faces twist in disgust with some of his favorite excerpts.  
He grabs his coat at the last second and leaves his apartment. It stopped snowing at least, and the streets are packed with tourists waiting for the ball to drop. Hordes of them stick together to make their way to Times Square. He hugs his coat closer to his skin as he jaywalks across the street. His feet slosh in the snow below him as he trudges forward. A car honks angrily at him as he passes in front of it.

The taxi driver curses at him and throws his hands up. Viktor stares back and narrows his eyes.

"You're going to get hit like that, you know?" He hears a voice call out to him.

It's always Yuuri.

Viktor lets a grin spread across his face as he meets the other man at the curb. Yuuri is dressed quite well. He's in a suit and the same tattered oxfords. He balances a pizza on his fingertips and nods toward the building's door. Viktor rushes ahead and holds the door open for the smaller man. Once inside Yuuri yanks the door open and heads up to the third floor with Viktor close behind him.  
Yuuri fumbles with his keys for a second but gets the door open.

Yuuri's apartment is . . . different.

It's like Viktor stepped into a void. He figured Yuuri would have all kinds of traditional Japanese art, or maybe some character to his place. However, the tones are black and grey. His couch looks stiff like it has never been sat on, and every surface is perfect. Even the magazines on the coffee table are fanned out symmetrically. Viktor is still taking in everything when Yuuri appears beside him.

"You can leave your coat on the hook behind you. Make yourself at home." Yuuri gestures to the rest of the apartment as he hangs up his coat. He unbuttons his suit and rests the jacket over one of the dining room table chairs. The table seems like it is never used, and only a lonely vase of hydrangeas. They're blue which shocks Viktor. He hasn't seen blue flowers in person before. He moves towards them and lets his fingers graze the petals softly. They smell heavenly once he leans forward. **[1]**

"I get them from a shop a few blocks down." Yuuri muses as he pulls some plates from his cabinet. He pulls two pieces for himself and rests against his counter. Viktor moves into the kitchen and snags a few for himself. He observes as Yuuri greedily shoves the pizza down his throat and Viktor comments on how fast of an eater he is.

"I have to eat so quickly at work that it's just transpired into my everyday life. I tend not to eat pizza too often." He says with a gulp.

"What do you for work?" Viktor questions as he sets his plate down.

"I'm a dancer.” He answers as he wipes the grease from his mouth. Viktor looks over with shock written all over his face, and Yuuri laughs. “I didn’t expect that reaction.”

"I'm just stunned is all. Where do you work?"

"I travel mostly and perform with artists as their on-stage dancer. When I am in New York I teach ballet at my friend's studio. I guess you could say I'm more of a freelance dancer then." Yuuri explains easily as he moves past Viktor to head into the dining area. He turns around with such grace that Viktor realizes why Yuuri is enthralling. It's the training he must have worked hard for over the years flowing out in every move he makes.

Viktor follows Yuuri out to the balcony hoping to catch up on his nicotine. They sit side by side on the wicker bench he has, and Viktor has to stretch his feet out over the balcony. His feet dangle of the edge, and the crisp wind bites at his heels.

They both quietly smoke their cigarettes as the crowd below them wavers. Viktor glances over at Yuuri who is also just content watching the crowd. The lights of New York dance off his glasses with revere and a smile plays at the edges of his lips. Viktor catches him chuckle at a particularly drunk bystander.

"A dancer that smokes. I'm sure you're an oddball."

"Oh, they hate when I have to take smoke breaks." Yuuri chuckles. "It's not the healthiest habit. But I can't seem to care enough to stop."

Viktor raises his eyebrows at the harshness of his statement. Was Yuuri just as fucked up as him? That was a heavy thing to just being throwing out. Viktor leans back against the arm of the wicker couch, and eyes Yuuri warily. He brings his legs up to cross over one another and he has to peer over his knees to keep his eyes on Yuuri.

Yuuri changes the subject abruptly, however. "So, what do you do?"

"I'm a writer for Leroy Publishing House. I mostly dabble in horror and true crime."

"Shit, anything I might have read?"

"We have a team that writes under a pseudonym. Every Stefan Queen book that has been written in the last decade has been penned by one of us." Viktor says on an exhale. **[2]**

"Wait, that new horror movie that came out is based on one of those books. Um," Yuuri shifts to sitting with his feet tucked under his thighs. He waves his hand as he searches for the words.

"Gregory's Game?" **[3]**

"Yes!"

"Yeah, that one is mine. Fun fact, all of my stories are the only ones that have made it into film adaptations." Viktor boasts with a grin.

"I saw it last weekend. It's fucked up, man." Yuuri responds.

"I wrote it about ten years ago. I was so fucking high on cocaine back then that words would just flow like crazy. My editor tried to get me to change the ending scene, so it wasn't as graphic, but I told him to eat my ass."

"And did he?"

"Once or twice," Viktor says with a sultry tone.

Yuuri sputters as he heaves with laughter. He brings his hand up to cover his mouth and soon falls into a fit of coughs. Viktor's eyebrows scrunch up, and he leans forward to place a hand on Yuuri's shoulder. Once his coughing fit is over Viktor pats him gently.

"Are you okay?" Viktor questions uneasily.

Yuuri rolls his eyes and shifts awkwardly in his spot.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm all right."

"That cough sounds pretty nasty."

"It is." Yuuri's voice drops as he turns his head to look out at the street. Viktor does the same, and he can finally see over into his apartment. He must have left the lights on. The young redhead next to him is on her balcony once more and she is singing merrily with a bottle of champagne and a few friends. Everyone is out on their balconies tonight, and he can't remember what he did last New Year's Eve. Was he even conscious for the ball drop?

"Hey, Viktor?"

"Yeah?"

Viktor whips his head back to Yuuri who moved so easily towards him. He was stuck in a half crawl towards Viktor and one of his hands is rising. He rests it over Viktor clothed chest, and Viktor can feel the blunt scrap of his nails through his shirt. Viktor's breath catches in his throat as his eyes roam the expanse of Yuuri's face. He could write a whole novel on each feature. It captures his brain again in a vice grip as he waits for Yuuri to speak.

"You're beautiful."

Viktor hums in thought as his own hands rise to grip at the dancer's hips. He pulls him so his weight is settled more into his lap.

"So, you are a bit of perv then. Watching me, befriending me just to get me into your bed." Viktor jokes.

"That wasn't the plan tonight." Yuuri shakes his head as he brings a hand up to graze the stubble on Viktor's cheek. Viktor's eyes close at the contact, and he leans into it. It's warm and real, and god he hasn't gotten laid in ages.

"I-uh, uh . . ."

"Just spit it out, Yuuri."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm quite comfy right now with you right here," Viktor says and solidifies his words with a rather bold grasp to Yuuri's backside. "What was your plan?"

"You looked lonely. But something about you pulled me to you. I wanted to be your friend, but as I saw you over and over every night, I wondered what it would be like to be curled up next to you. Or hear your voice. But, but..."

"Spit it-"

"But from watching you. There's something wrong with you."

Viktor narrows his eyes and sets his jaw with a grind of his teeth.

"See, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I don't see the point of exposing my flaws if you wanted to fuck. Real smooth with your flirting technique." Viktor states with a hint of annoyance.

"Viktor, as much as I would like to sleep with you--casual flings aren't my scene anymore. At first, yeah, I thought of just wanting to sleep with you. But when you notice the little things about a person and can't stop thinking about them, I think it means more than just sex." Yuuri runs his fingers across Viktor's shoulders and leans down to barely brush his lips against Viktor's.

"Even if you stop him from hanging himself," Yuuri whispers so softly that Viktor barely catches it. Viktor searches for any emotion across Yuuri's face, but all that he sees is pain.

He's hurt too many people at this point that it barely stings. Yuuri's hands dive back up to his throat, and Viktor can feel him rub against the rash across his Adam's apple.

"Why?"

"Why, what?" Viktor parrots.

"Why are you so keen on killing yourself? If I hadn't called your phone last night we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Viktor feels like his brain is a ton of bricks. He can't seem to form the words to answer Yuuri's question. He usually has thoughts always rampant in his mind, but right now it's silent. No mocking, no threats . . . it's just Yuuri.

"I don't know." Viktor answers. "I've been like this since I can remember."

"Have you ever been . . . um, close to killing yourself?"

"Once." Viktor garbles. He smacks his lips a few times and tries to wet his mouth. His throat feels like a desert, and he longs for that stupid bottle of vodka on the floor of his apartment.

He’s going to be freaked out even more. Better not tell him if you still want to get laid.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What happened?"

"I'm not just some open book for your enjoyment." Viktor retorts. He tries to get up, but Yuuri pushes his chest back down into the couch. Viktor growls slightly at the harsh contact and marvels on how strong Yuuri is. He can see the way his biceps bulge on the edge of his sleeves, and the sleek way his neck curves while flexing.

“Why would you think I would enjoy hearing that story?”

“Because you asked to hear it.”

“Jesus, that doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy it. I want to understand you better.” Yuuri says with an edge to his tone.

“What if I don’t want you to understand me?”

“Then what is the point of all this? You can’t expect to want to get close to someone without opening up yourself.”

Viktor's eyes flicker up to Yuuri’s face once more, and he can see the turmoil he’s causing the young man. Viktor sits up whilst wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s waist. He directs the younger man back down onto the chair and stands. He brushes the bit of dirt off his pants and shirt before making his way over to the sliding glass door.

“Thank you for the food. I have to go.” Viktor whispers as he makes haste towards Yuuri’s front door. He can hear Yuuri calling after him, but it’s muffled once he slams the door shut behind him.

_Hey, maybe this time when you cross the street the car will hit you this time._

* * *

“Nice of you to actually show up to the meeting, Viktor.”

Yakov was a decrepit old man with barely any social skills. Fifteen years working side by side with this man and Viktor sort of saw him as a father figure. Yakov had gotten him out of a pinch or two in his mid-twenties. Viktor could easily go to the man with anything relating to work, but lately, he wasn’t inspired to clack away at his keyboard. Nothing seemed to flow onto paper like it used to. Maybe the alcohol was dulling it. He should still see if his old dealer still lives in town.

“Be lucky I even showed up,” Viktor grumbles back as he sits down in front of Yakov’s obscenely large desk. Along with no social skills, Yakov was a private person. The only person he knew that was tied to Yakov was his adoptive son Yuri who Viktor was friendly with. The feisty blonde was in his late teens now, but still a good companion occasionally. Viktor made a mental note to reach out to the kid.

“Viktor, this isn’t easy.”

“Life isn’t easy. I’ll get the writing done—I just need some inspiration. Been thinking of traveling back to Russia.” Viktor replies with a wave of his hand. His eyes just bore down into his cellphone even though there are no messages to even wait for.

“No, you’re not understanding.” Yakov sighs and leans back in his plush computer chair with his hands folded.

Viktor finally glances up from his phone and Yakov’s face is stern. Too stern.

“Yakov, what’s up?”

“Your contract with us is up, and . . . the higher-ups decided to not to renew it. Everything you penned under the pseudonym will still pay you out every month. Royalties are still a thing. We just no longer wish to continue the business.” Yakov explains with a waver in his voice. Viktor can tell by the look on his face that this wasn’t his decision.

Viktor rises while pocketing his phone and he picks up his laptop. Yakov places a palm on the item and presses it back down into the wood.

“All assets need to remain with the company.”

Viktor grits his teeth. “I have pieces on there that I would like to retrieve since they are no longer yours to take.”

“I can send them—”

“Is JJ in today?” Viktor interrupts.

“Mr. Leroy is in a meeting right now about the new television series.”

“You mean my fucking television series. I haven’t even signed over the paperwork to let you fully take creative action with it.” Viktor argues.

“It belongs to Leroy Publishing when it hit the press five years ago.”

“Like fuck, it will! He’s up on the top level, right?” Viktor seethes as he gathers everything, he brought with him including the dumbass laptop. He stuffs it into his bag and swings it across his shoulder.

“What fucking conference room?”

“Viktor, don’t do this. I can help you get on your feet—”

“What conference room?” Viktor says again as he makes his way to the office door. Yakov comes dashing after him and snatches up his elbow.

“You smell like a fucking distillery. If you go up there right now it is not going to help your case. Let me get you checked into a facility, and then afterward we can get you contacts with other publishing houses.” Yakov pleads with the younger man as Viktor breaks his grasp.

“Don’t fucking touch me. Thanks for the fucking help, Yakov. Really the last fifteen years have been spectacular.” Viktor replies as he heads towards the elevators. Yakov is hot on his tail and slams his hand onto the doors before they close.

“Let them close.”

“No! You listen here!” Yakov is fuming. His face is starting to turn crimson as he points a finger into Viktor’s face. Viktor has a mind to slap it out of his vision, but Yakov takes one step into his space and he’s frozen.

“People have been trying to help you for a better part of a decade! It’s amazing you haven’t fucking overdosed at this point or drank yourself to an early death. You don’t get to play the victim when I’ve done nothing but help you. Your contract would have ended five years ago if I hadn’t fought for you. Now, I look like the fool protecting a fucking addict. Get some fucking help, Viktor. And think hard what you’re going to say to Leroy.” Yakov hollers, and Viktor can see onlookers from the office standing up from their cubicles. Their stares are heavy on him.

Viktor wants to sock him so hard, but that’s the last thing he needs on his record. People are waiting for his reply eagerly like a drama show on television. Viktor can feel his heartbeat in his throat and sweat is starting to pool on his forehead. He can’t tell if it’s from the embarrassment or withdrawal since it’s been about a day since he’s drank a drop of liquor.

“You’re brilliant, Viktor. And it’s so upsetting to see you waste it like this.” Yakov says softer to him. Viktor sniffs quietly, he isn’t crying. God, he can’t even remember the last time he did so.

“What am I going to do now, Yakov?”

“I don’t know.” Yakov lets go of the elevator, and clasps on hand on Viktor’s cheek. He pats it a few times and then pinches it with a small smile on his face. “You always figure it out even with unconventional means. Remember, you’re brilliant. You can’t continue to grow without strong roots.”

“What does that mean?”

“Start at the beginning, and maybe you’ll find where the pain started.”

Yakov backs away, and the doors close right in front of Viktor. The elevator dings angrily at him to pick a floor, and he wearily glances down to the buttons. He hits the lobby button a bit too hard.

* * *

Viktor’s apartment is packed within the week. Luckily, he was smart enough to keep a gross amount of savings so he could take the time off. Yakov had sent him an email about some fantastic facilities on the west coast, but he chose to ignore it.

He just needed to get away.

The last box stood in his apartment, so he decides to take it down himself to the storage truck. The truck would take all his belongings to a storage container where they would most likely sit there and collect dust. He wasn’t even sure when he was coming back.

_If you come back._

Viktor leaves his keys on the counter and shuffles down to the street to hand the man the last box. He grunts a thank, and hands Viktor a bill. The two men clamber up into the truck and pull away. He observes as everything in his life is pulled away in an instant except his essentials.

It’s a bit sad to see the most important things in his life stuffed into a duffel bag and his own pockets. Viktor glances up from the bags, and a bit shocked to see Yuuri merely standing across the street.  
It had been about a month since they have spoken. He was too skittish to go back over to Yuuri, and he couldn’t possibly give the man what he wanted. Viktor lifts a hand to wave at him as the wind picks up. Yuuri’s hair wobbles in the wind as well, and he lifts a weary hand to Viktor in reply.

Viktor reaches down to swing the duffel bag over his shoulder, and when he glances back up Yuuri is nowhere to be seen. Viktor feels a pang somewhere deep in his chest, and it surprises him.  
He thought maybe he could fake it, and make it work with Yuuri. He could easily come up with some easy lie about how he just took a few too many pills.

But that wouldn’t be fair to Yuuri.

Viktor hails a cab and demands to be taken to the airport. If he has to dig into his roots he has to go back to Detroit. The last place on Earth he wanted to be.

* * *

On the corner of Cascade Avenue and Burlingame there stood an old house. **[4]**

The house was so ancient that with the slightest puff of wind it would shift. The shifting often woke Viktor up as a child, and he would run to his mother.

Every time he cried ghost; his father would grumble at him to go back to sleep. That the house was protected by God, and no mere ghost would dare feel the wrath of Father Nikiforov.  
Viktor looks up at the house that stood unmoving almost eighteen years since his departure. It seemed like it was melting into the ground at this point, and almost all the windows were boarded up. The steps as he made his way up crackled under his boots, and he could hear the gravel tumble to the walkway.

Viktor raised his hand to knock, but something halted him.

_Knock you, pussy. Papa is got to be around seventy at this point. You can take him._

Viktor bangs against the door, and it feels like it will crack under his power. Viktor takes a soft step backward and pulls his coat closer to him. He can hear footsteps which are a good sign. To think if he came out here for nothing.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Fuck, he wasn’t ready for what opened the door.

A young man stood at the doorway dressed in like his father. Viktor was frozen in his spot as he took in the teenager. He’s shorter than Viktor more like the stature of his mother. His hair is gelled back, but those electric eyes staring back at him solidify everything he feared after the door was opened.

_Oh, shit! They replaced you with a new son. Man, he’s even got the grey hair like you._

“Um, Hello? How can I help you?” The young man questions. He’s fiddling with his shirt, and Viktor knows how to fix the tab in his collar. His hands react to reach out to aid him, but he slams them back into his side.

“I don’t make house calls if that’s what you are here for. You can wait at the church like everyone else.” Viktor doesn’t even detect a Russian accent in the man’s voice. At least he kept a part of his Russian history with him. He still had a hint of the accent given he spent sixteen years mostly speaking the language with limited English.

“Father Nikiforov?” Viktor tries with a crack in his voice.

“Yes? And you are?”

“I’m—from New York City. Is Mikhail Nikiforov here?” Viktor asks. **[5]**

The young priest’s eyes cast downwards, and he shifts on his feet anxiously.

“Papa died about four years ago. Did you have business with my late father?”

And there it was. Viktor felt his chest clench, and he reaches up to grab at his collar. He undoes the button deftly, but his breathing is ragged. He drops to his knees on his old stairs and grips the stone.

“Sir, are you all right?” The man leans down to put a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. He shoves it away, and soon another voice is speaking above him.

“Fedya! Who is this man?” He hears rapid-fire Russian, and Viktor cranes his neck to see someone he hadn’t thought about in years. **[6]**

His mother.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight before her. She’s no longer the stick of woman she used to be. Her hair is still a shockingly light color of blonde, and the wrinkles around her face trace down to her chin. She looks nothing like he remembers, but it’s her.

Her face is still set sternly, and she puts a hand on the priest’s shoulder.

“Fedya, get this man off my porch.”

“Who is this, mother?”

“Someone you do not want to get involved. Call the police if you have to.” She grounds out.

A burst of energy slams through Viktor’s body at her words, and he stands up at lightning speed. Fedya’s steady hands hold in back instantly as he charges towards his mother.

“You think you can get rid of the memory of me with this boy?! I hope what you did to me weighs on your conscious till the day you croak, you decrepit bitch! How could you send your child out in the worst blizzard of the century because he decided to love who he wants to love?”

She doesn’t even budge.

“Are you even fucking listening?! Seems like Father already met his well-deserved, and I’m fucking glad—because you know what? I would’ve loved to see the look on his face when I tell him all the stories about all the men I’ve fucked. Maybe you and I can swap techniques on sucking cock for old time's sake?” Viktor smiles as he says the last sentence, and his mother still hasn’t turned around yet. She is standing in the entryway to their old home.

Viktor can vividly remember playing ball with his dog as a child right in that foyer. His mother chasing after him with laughter bubbling all around her. They had been happy once. He tries to remind himself of this daily.

Viktor glances at Fedya and pushes his hands off him. He isn’t going to hurt an old woman. He just wants them shaken up. Like he has been for years.

“I came back to tell you, that I fucking survived after you kicked me out. You obviously didn’t wait too long to pump out a carbon copy of Father.” Viktor growls as he steps away from both.

Fedya is looking on in horror at Viktor, and he softly touches the cross perched on his neck. He fiddles it between the pads of his fingers and turns to his mother. She still hasn’t moved from her spot, but she stands straighter and taps her cane against the hardwood floor.

“Get off my property, Выродок.” She spits before hobbling away. **[7]**

_Never wanted you. Never will want you it seems._

Viktor’s shoulders slump as he watches her go. He wants to keep yelling, threatening, but it’s going to do no use. Unless he wanted to spend the night in jail. Fedya grasps the cuff on his shirt, and Viktor tries to snatch it away. However, Fedya hold’s out a small card.

“Take it.”

“Fuck off,” Viktor states, and is about to turn away.

“Please, just take the card. Call me—if you feel up to it.” He whispers the tail end and disappears into the house and shuts the door with a gentle click.

Viktor thinks about crumpling up the card and tossing it back at the door. However, he looks down at it, and damn his stupid brain for sticking it in his wallet. Why would the man want to speak with him? He’s no mood for some conversion therapy from his apparent younger brother.

Viktor breathes heavily and stalks back over to his car. He needs to get out of here.

He wonders on the drive back to the hotel what Yuuri is doing. He had only been in Detroit for two weeks. He pandered about his hotel and the city trying to ignore why he was here until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

Maybe he can give him a call.

He probably shouldn’t.

Fuck it. He orders his car radio to call Yuuri, and the line rings twice before a voice answers.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, uh, Yuuri. It’s Viktor.”

_“Viktor, why are you calling? Are you okay?”_

_Doesn’t probably want to speak to you_.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. Are you busy?”

_“No, I just got back to my hotel.”_

“Oh! Traveling for work?”

_“Yes . . . I’m on a tour. I’m in London.”_

Oh, shit now he feels bad. He must have just finished a set. It must be insanely late there.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I can just call back another time.”

_“No! It’s okay. I don’t mind. I’m just surprised is all. Given how we, uh, left it. I wanted to apolo—”_

“No, do not apologize. Nothing was your fault. It was all me. I’m sorry. I’m working that out with myself right now.” Viktor says as he pulls into a parking lot. He soon finds a spot and puts the car in park.

_“Okay. I accept your apology.”_

“Thank you?”

_“Isn’t this part of your ten steps or something?”_

“Uh, no. I’m just saying sorry because I’m sincerely sorry.”

_“Oh, shit. I’m an idiot. Of course. All in all, I accept it.” Yuuri laughs slightly. “How are you though? You moved.”_

“I didn’t move. I got fired from the publishing house and I needed a change. I’m traveling right now.” Viktor explains.

_“Where are you?”_

“Detroit.”

 _“I expected something more tropical.”_ Yuuri jests.

“Maybe soon.” Viktor returns the laugh. “Hey, Yuuri?”

_“Yeah, Viktor?”_

“I’m getting help. Well, I’m helping myself the best I can. I’ve limited myself to one drink a day so far. A doctor friend—he said I shouldn’t just cold turkey.”

_“He’s right. You can die if you do that.”_

“How do you know that?”

 _“Everyone has something in their past, Viktor. Sometimes you got to give a bit to receive.”_ Yuuri’s voice dampens a bit with sadness. And Viktor doesn’t press.

“Thanks for answering my call, Yuuri.”

_“Anytime.”_

Viktor hangs up, and a smile creeps upon his face.

_I think he likes me._

* * *

Detroit to Los Angeles to an endless number of cities. He traveled quite a bit after his writing became popular, so he had a lot of places to visit to recall his life. Going to his roots almost tipped him back over the edge. Especially when Fedya found his email somehow and reached out. He still hasn’t opened it.

He helped rebuild houses after the earthquake in Los Angeles. He sang at open mic nights and truly enjoyed slam poetry for once in his life.

He learned of craft beer in Oregon and hiked the Rockies for a total of one day. He just couldn’t make it the rest of the day with his smoker lungs, but hey, at least he did it.

He went to New Orleans and learned the ways of Voodoo. They tried to shun him away, but soon the term ‘white boy’ became endearing.

The tattoo he got in Las Vegas still stings across his collar bone.

Some stories jotted down in his book just from the United States alone. He had already started planning his escapades to European and the Pacific. He still had a lot more to tick off his list.  
Atlanta is sweltering in the summer, and he can’t wait for his flight in the morning. It’s his last stop across the States. He’s been busying himself with writing, but it’s something different this time. Something he spends sleepless nights mulling over.

Gone are the days of horror and bloodshed, now he writes about his journey. It isn’t going to be a number one bestseller by any means, but at least he’s writing something. Even if it’s just a collection of stories from his journal. His laptop lights up with a Skype Call from Yuuri, and his face lights up at the notification. He answers the call immediately.

“Hey, Viktor!”

“Hey, Yuuri!” Viktor chimes back with a genuine smile. Yuuri returns it.

_He’s so wonderful._

“How was the show?”

“Oh, you know. The same dance, different venue.” Yuuri chuckles as he rubs a towel into his black tresses. He must have just gotten out of the shower. He’s sitting bare-chested in front of the camera, and Viktor must train his eyes away from the man’s chest.

“Your last show is Saturday, right?”

“Yes, we will be wrapping up at Madison Square. You said in text you have a flight in the morning. Where are you off to this time?”

“I’m heading back to New York. I have an interview with a publishing house on Monday.” He explains.

“Congratulations! I hope you get it.” Yuuri grins.

“I do too.”

They take a few seconds to just observe each other through the computer screen. They break into a fit of laughs at each other’s ridiculousness.

_I wish I could make him laugh like that all the time._

“How many days now?”

“135 days alcohol-free.” Viktor raises his hand in a thumbs-up motion. Yuuri claps happily, and Viktor does a small but ultimately dramatic bow.

“Have you finished your book?”

“I still have the last bit of arc to go through. The book isn’t done until this is all finished. I still want to go across the pond.” Viktor replies.

“Well, we will both be in New York. I have a day off between shows tomorrow. Would you like to—uh, get, like – “

“Anything, I’d like to do anything with you.” Viktor interrupts. He covers his mouth and apologizes for being rude.

“It’s okay.” Viktor states. He has his notebook in his hands, and he is wringing it between his tired palms.

_Just tell him, you idiot._

“Hey, Yuuri?”

“Yeah, Viktor?”

“I think I’m ready to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“What I wouldn’t—couldn’t tell you on New Year’s Eve. My life has not been easy, and that’s not an excuse for the things I did. You know that’s the reason I’m out here. Reliving the life, I missed because I was either drunk or high, or wishing I was dead. I wronged a lot of people, and I wanted to fix that. Not because of some step in AA, but because it was time. Atlanta, this very hotel room is where I almost succeeded.” Viktor says as he lifts his laptop. He stands up and moves to the bed. His weight bounces off it once he sits down.

“I had to see the guy who I put through all that trouble that night. We had dinner, and it was nice. He’s married now—two kids.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Yuuri shifts more comfortably in bed as he listens to Viktor intently.

“I used to travel after I would finish a book with the money, and just do whatever the hell I wanted or whoever. I wronged so many people. The penthouse I lit on fire in Los Angeles, the car I wrecked while driving, and in Atlanta was the worst of it. I went home with Jared, his name was, and we came back to this hotel. We slept together, but that night the thoughts just wouldn’t stop. It might have been the mix of LSD, weed, and alcohol which made it worse. But that would be a lie.”

Viktor takes a deep breath and wrings the notebook harder in his hand.

“It’s okay.”

“I know, it’s just hard to get it out. What I did to Jared was awful, and I was surprised he even agreed to see me. He probably wanted to see if I was still alive.”

“So, you said you slept together, and then what?”

“The thing about Jared is. He had a gun in his car, and I knew this. I stole it while we drove back to the hotel. I took it with me into the bathroom, and I was settled to do it. A bathtub full of ice, gun in my hand.” Viktor stops once more, and his throat is starting to clench up.

He will still like you. He’s told you this over and over. You’ve been talking for months, it’s helping.

“I missed. I couldn’t do it. I shot the gun, waking him up and just grazing my ear. I scared the living hell out of him, and he took off for the hills. I had to make sure he didn’t blame himself for years afterward for leaving a gun with an inebriated person.” Viktor lays back on the bed with Yuuri perched on the side. Yuuri’s emotions haven’t changed, and he has his knees pulled up to his chest.  
Viktor hasn’t smoked in months, but the first time in a while he craves just that second of escape. Yuuri clears his throat and snaps to get Viktor’s attention.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Always,”

“Like I said give and take makes it easier. But I’m a recovered anorexic. Eating disorder. It’s common among dancers but from eighteen to twenty-three. It was bad. I can tell you more about it later, but we both have flights to catch soon.” Yuuri says, and a few seconds later he follows it with a yawn.

“Where will we meet?” Viktor asks.

“Remember the subway station in our apartments? There.”

Viktor smiles at him while nodding and touches his hand to the screen feeling the warmth of the computer. It isn’t the same as human contact, but he’s had to deal with this type of communication for months with Yuuri. Tomorrow he will get the real thing.

“Yuuri?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

* * *

_Dear Yakov,_

_I’m writing this email way too late, my friend. I apologize for the delay._

_Don’t worry this isn’t a suicide note. Ha Ha._

_Not a good joke probably. Sorry._

_I shouldn’t have left like I did when I was let go. Naturally, I was upset. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I should never have treated you the way I did. You brought me in like a son, and I treated you like the dirt I walked upon for too long._

_I am sorry._

_I’ve been traveling. I also just surpassed 130 days alcohol-free. I probably should have led with that. Sorry, you know how I like to ramble._

_I am also sorry I’m telling you this VIA email instead of in person. But you know as well as anybody that my written words are better than the ones coming out of my mouth._

_I heard you left and started your own publishing company. I’m not asking for a handout. I want to interview for your company as a writer. Obviously._

_I will be back in New York at the end of August, so I would appreciate it if given the chance._

_I am not expecting anything, but I have attached the first draft of my project. I have two pieces for the project. I am still gathering content for the project since it requires a lot of traveling. I should expect to have everything finished by Christmas._

_Look forward to hearing from you,_

_VN_

* * *

Viktor was early.

Of course, he was early.

Maybe buying flowers were tacky. But the light blue hydrangeas were too breathing taking to pass up. He held them tightly in his hand and reached up to itch the back of his neck.

“Wow, are you the author Viktor Nikiforov?” He hears a voice behind him. Viktor perks up and turns on his heels.

_It’s Yuuri. It’s always Yuuri._

He envelopes him in a crushing embrace immediately, and Yuuri swings his arms around Viktor’s neck. Viktor catches himself breathing in the scent of Yuuri, and can feel his hair tickling his nose softly.  
He rears back to get a better look at the younger man, and his face hurts from smiling so widely.

“I missed you.”

“Always.” Viktor chimes as he wraps an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder. He pulls him into his side as the begin walking towards a café Viktor had picked out. He passes the flowers between them and puts them into Yuuri’s open hand.

“They’re for you.”

“Thank you, how did you know I like hydrangeas?”

“You had them in your apartment on New Year’s Eve.” Viktor states as the come to a lull on the sidewalk. They shuffle closer to the building, so they aren’t blocking the pathway. Yuuri glances down to the floor and tugs them a little closer to his chest.

“Thank you, Viktor.”

“You deserve them. I’ll be sure to give you more at your show tomorrow.” Viktor chuckles as he leans against the building. Yuuri comes to stand by his side as they stop before heading down to the subway. Viktor reaches out to grab his hand and grasps it between his own tightly.

“Yuuri?”

“Yeah?”

“May I kiss you?” Viktor says nervously. He’s so worried that this is just a haze filled dream conjured up by his drunk mind. He’s terrified any second that he’s going to wake up in his vacant apartment years in the future with rope marks on his neck and slashes up his wrists.

But every time he looks at Yuuri his dark thoughts quell, and their mocking humor hasn’t plagued him in a while. Not when Yuuri is always on his brain.

“Of course,”

Viktor leans down while bringing his hand up to cup Yuuri’s cheek. His skin is smooth, and sparks under his touch as he runs his thumb across his cheekbone. He stalls for a moment to just take the moment in and smiles.

“Well, are you going to kiss me?” Yuuri says playfully with his hands bundled against Viktor’s chest.

Viktor doesn’t waste time pressing his lips against Yuuri’s own. It’s like one of Yuuri’s dances. Graceful, elegant, and striking as Viktor presses his body closer.

_About damn time, hotshot._

After a few seconds they pull away, and Viktor is gone. He knows this. He doesn’t need another fifty dates or an engagement. He knows this is how he wants to spend the rest of his life.

His therapist says relapses can happen. He’s aware. Hell, he’s had about a dozen of them. However, this one feels like it’s going to stick. There’s going to be bad days, but Viktor can get through them now.

Because Yuuri is here. The first person to truly see him after all these years.

He’s finally seen.

God, what a feeling that is. He just wants to dance, scream, and shout in the cities of New York. Nothing could squander the cloud he is on now.

Yuuri taps the side of his face with his fingers, and Viktor comes back down to Earth.

“Hey, Viktor?”

“Hmm?” Viktor says as he rests his forehead against Yuuri’s own.

“Thanks for sharing that with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I'm still eh about it, but this story is one I've never been satisfied with no matter what. I wanted to focus on the frigidly of the mind, dive into a similar coming out experience that was a bit similar to my own, and how to get to recovery phase. Recovery never ends. 
> 
> I always appreciate kudos and comments as well. Thank you to all who decide to!
> 
> Anecdotes!
> 
> [1] Hydrangeas - the flowers on Yuuri's table are there for a reason. Hydrangeas symbolize both Yuuri and Viktor. Positively they express emotions within or the feeling of being understood. Negatively they symbolize heartlessness and frigidity. 
> 
> [2] Stefan Queen is a play on Stephen King's name
> 
> [3] Gregory's Game is a play on the book written by Stephan King called Gerald's Game. It was adapted to a Netflix Original as well.
> 
> [4] Cascade Avenue and Burlingame are real streets in the neighborhood Petoskey-Ostego. It's located in Detroit, Michigan, USA. 
> 
> [5] Viktor's Father is named after Michael of Chernigov. He was killed for his firm belief in the Christian faith. 
> 
> [6] Viktor's brother's name means "God's gift".
> 
> [7] Выродок means a person who stands out of his family negatively. A black sheep. 
> 
> Songs I listened to while writing/editing this:
> 
> The Night We Met by Lord Huron, Phoebe Bridgers
> 
> Six Feet Under by Billie Eilish
> 
> Malibu Nights by LANY
> 
> listen before I go by Billie Eilish
> 
> Oh, Raven by Unlike Pluto
> 
> Downtown Train by Everything But the Girl (I also recommend the Tom Waits version)
> 
> Also, once again I'm old and can't figure out how to actually embed the link to my tumblr. 
> 
> It is: aphoticw.tumblr.com


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